(in a finely carved stone box, there is a lead-lined wooden casket, and inside is a tube of pure gold containing sheets of rolled-up paper)
(the box has been kept by members of the Vigil for two centuries, only to be presented to Sigmar's Heir, the Hammer-bearer)
(written on the finest paper with a steady hand that makes no mistakes)
Nuln, 7 Vorhexen, 2304
Greetings, Cousin, as-yet-unborn descendant of Sigmar.
I know not your name, but before my inner eye, I see you standing there, Hammer raised, poised to strike. You are magnificent, everything I hoped to be—but was not—and what Magnus, fool that he is, turned his back on.
I hope this letter finds you dead and rotted—or even better, dying in excruciating agony, bereft of all hope as your soul is consumed by Chaos—but judging by my visions, I suppose such is not the case, so I’ll settle for cursing you and your false Gods with every fiber of my being.
Now that introductions and compliments have been exchanged let’s proceed to the matter at hand:
I’ve just received word from my contacts in Erengrad. Magnus has somehow, impossibly, halted the Legions of Chaos and defeated Asavar Kul the Everchosen without Ghal Maraz. How can this be? Asavar was stronger than any previous champion, a mighty Kurgan Zar, Chosen by the Powers, his followers beyond counting. How could a simple mortal and his rag-tag army oppose—let alone win—against such reckless might?
I do not understand. But it no longer matters. Soon, they will come for me, bearing iron and torches and razor knives. Such is the lot of the defeated.
If only I was so lucky.
A much darker fate awaits my soul: the Daemon with whom I made the pact awaits. It demands its due, and I have nothing more to give, so I shall now pay the price of the failure of others. I’ve kept it at bay thus far, but if I let down my guard for only an instant… it will take me, and I shall experience the fate I so desperately have tried to avoid: Hell—and worse—for eternity…
(there is an ink stain on the parchment; looking a bit like an eye if you apply some imagination)
Now, it proposes a trade: if I let it use me as a vessel to write a letter, it will forgo its claim to my soul and leave me to the Witch Hunters. They will burn me and deny me passage through the Gates of Morr, but oblivion is better than the torment that awaits the Lost and the Damned.
It’s a lie, a trick. Of course, it is. Daemons are lies. I, of all people, know this. But what is the point of further resistance? The Daemon will get me in the end anyway… and I’m so tired… so very, very tired.
(the writing is less steady now, as if the writer’s hand was shaking)
Let this be over with.
(on the next page, in the Dark Tongue, written in blood)
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End…
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
Sheerargetru, Great Master, I call thee… Three times Three, I call thee… let the Nine Eyes open, let in the Dark Light, that which is the Beginning and the End.
(the last ‘End’ is smeared, almost unintelligible)
(on the next page, in normal ink again, but the handwriting is different, elaborate and extravagant)
Greetings, Son of Sigmar!
If you read this, you did what many have been too weak to do—and Magnus turned away from (a more narrow-minded, annoying little man I’ve never encountered): you took the Hammer from its secret resting place and used it to smite the physical form of the greatest of all Daemons, Sheerargetru the Magnificent. Yes, I willingly give you part of my True Name, for that piece of me no longer exists—truly, Ghal Maraz is the equal of the Sword of Khaine, a true god-killer (you may have to kill a god at some point, so don’t lose the Hammer).
While unfortunate, this outcome was not entirely unexpected. Indeed, it was by far the likeliest way this story would play out.
Still, I suppose I will feel somewhat surprised—and disappointed—when the time comes and you wield the Hammer against me. Until that point, I’ll smugly cling to the notion that we’ll become best friends, and together, we’ll shape the Empire into something great and wondrous, a beacon of order and light in that face of the dark blight that is Chaos.
You’d be the Emperor Eternal, and I’d advise you from the shadows. The power behind the throne, if you will. You and I could have been a great team, but alas, my origins and Daemonic nature make me somewhat suspect.
Maybe I was an idiot for entertaining such notions, but try living alone in a cave for two millennia (and change), and you start dreaming. Plus, I was already given to flights of fancy, which I suppose got me into trouble in the first place.
I wasn’t always like that, you know. In the Between Times, I was a loyal, dependable Lord of Change with no rebellious intent or sense of being different from my peers. Only when I consumed the essence of Tahoth—one of the many Nehekharan gods that thrived in the ancient lands before Ptra decided to be Ankh, the One, Lord of Light and Life—and took his form to walk among the desert peoples did I begin to change…
(Did you see what I did there? A Lord of Change… changing. Human humor is so… funny. I’m glad I could finally understand it and make my own jokes.)
When I was trapped in the cave by Sigmar, I was first in denial, then I was very angry for quite some time. Then I tried pleading with Sigmar—which, of course, didn’t work, as he’d gone up to join Ulric—then became depressed, going as far as trying to destroy myself against the Hammer (but I can’t touch it, so no release). But eventually, I accepted my—temporary—fate and got to work. I was trapped, but there were ways around it, and I eventually figured out how to observe and even influence the outside world.
I began promoting cults that would eventually see me freed (and the Empire laid in Ruins). But being locked inside a cave on the material plane for a few millennia—with the holiest of holy artifacts as your only company—will change even the best of Daemons. I began to change even more… until I became… different. Not human, but no longer a true Daemon.
I began to have feelings alien to me… it took a while to realize I had a particular fondness for the Empire I had helped create (for all the wrong reasons, mind you). So, I made a new plan. I kept the cults on retainer, so to speak, because… well, being a Lord of Change and everything. But I started helping out the Empire in many little ways, trying to keep it together when times were hard, promoting magic (that didn’t work out too well), and the sciences when I could.
The rest of me—perhaps you’ve figured this out already—is banished to the Warp for 1000 years and a day (or some such). Or did you think you were rid of me entirely? Banish the notion. I’m not so easily undone. Nor is anyone else, for that matter. The soul consists of many parts, as do Daemons, and you cannot truly destroy the Beginning and the End of all things, can you?
Furthermore, you are now bound to the Hammer, and the Hammer is bound to me, as is all the blood of Sigmar. Through no fault of your own, I admit, but the sins of the fathers shall always be a burden for their children.
What am I trying to say here… I suppose I mean we could hang out again if you’re still around when I can go back to the Old World. But since you destroyed a pretty important part of what makes me me, and I’ve been forced to live in the Warp for so long, I might not be the nice Daemon you know and love. In fact, I might try to consume your soul. Sorry about that, but it’s your own fault, really.
A quick aside: If you decide that some of what I’ve told you is true, that could be a problem. One of the Eight Signs of the End Times is «daemons speaking the truth.» So keep your eyes open for any other Signs. Speaking of which, the End Times will come—always do—but it doesn’t have to be this year—or anytime soon. In fact, you could probably delay it for millennia if the Empire is made strong enough.
Watch for the signs and don’t let the Everchosen win—that sets certain events in motion, resulting in the world's breaking. If that should happen, you have the Hammer and hopefully enough essence to make it to the next cycle.
I would have loved to write more (I agree: Daemons of Tzeentch talk entirely too much), but the Witch Hunters are coming for this body soon, and this letter must be sealed, and the particulars of its delivery be arranged before the 9th bell of the 9th day of Vorhexen.
Your eternal friend,
Sheerargetru
(there is one more page after that)
We have time for a little anecdote: I recently found Ankh, once the great lord of Sun and Life, wandering the Arabyan deserts. He was little more than a ghost; his followers either dead or undead. I see many paths for him, some of which will intersect with yours, but it is hard to see what fates await you two together. And that is a good thing; that which I cannot predict, Tzeentch also cannot. Ankh is a wild card, and I relish the thought of adding him to your deck.
I’ll try to reconnect him with some of the desert tribesmen. Should give him a bit of his power back. But eventually, he’ll need to go to the Empire. Perhaps as a slave brought home by the Knights Panther? I might send him to old Solland—they used to have faith in a Sun god there, Old Soll. I’ll figure something out.
If you do not know what I’m talking about, you obviously never met Ankh, and you can ignore my ramblings. Seek out Sigmar or Ulric or someone else instead. You need the Gods on your side to stand up to Chaos.
(on the bottom of the page)
PS If you did not stop all of the Nine Eyes cults, you might have some Chaos incursions on your hands, but I won’t be at any of them, so you should be able to contain it, with the Hammer and all.
PPS If you wish to get in touch before a 1000 years have passed, find the other parts of my True Name, which I have cleverly hidden throughout the Empire, and use a ritual to call me.
PPPS I see elves in your future. Only one of them genuinely has your best interests at heart. There others care only for themselves or their own kind. So don’t drive that one away. Or if you can’t tell which one it is, maybe kill them all, just to be sure?
PPPPS Potatoes are the future. I don’t know why, but they go sooo well with herring. Add a bit of mustard and…
I really have to go now.
S.
